There are weeks that spend us — not dramatically, but steadily, the way a slow leak empties something you were sure was full.
Lord, I have made it to the end of this week, and I want to be honest with You about what that cost me.
I gave what I had. Some of it gladly. Some of it reluctantly. Some of it I gave and then spent the next hour wishing I could take back. Forgive me for the last kind.
I am tired in the way that sleep alone will not fix — tired somewhere below the surface, in the place where I keep the things I don’t say out loud. You know what’s down there. I am glad You do, because I am not sure I could explain it.
Tonight, let me rest without guilt. Let me sit without an agenda. Let me be a creature who needs rest and not apologize for it, since You, after all, invented the evening.
Whatever I did not finish, hold it. Whatever I could not fix, hold that too. I release this week into Your keeping and ask only for the mercy of a quiet night.
Amen.